


First Cup of Tea: Another AU

by takumiismypatronus



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:27:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takumiismypatronus/pseuds/takumiismypatronus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond wakes his sleeping quartermaster with a cup of tea--and an unusual confession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Cup of Tea: Another AU

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [First Cup of Tea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3119879) by [Kryptaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria). 
  * Inspired by [First Cup of Tea, Take Two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3125525) by [Kryptaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria), [rayvanfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/pseuds/rayvanfox). 
  * Inspired by [First Cup of Tea, Third Time's the Charm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3137651) by [Kryptaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria), [rayvanfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/pseuds/rayvanfox). 



> Kryptaria wrote a thing, then she and rayvanfox wrote a couple of remixes. Here's my contribution.

James Bond doesn’t need a key to the quartermaster’s flat; his biometrics have already been programmed into the security system. It’s easier this way. Less sneaky spy stuff that could get him, well, not killed precisely, but certainly maimed. Or inconvenienced. Q takes security—his, his agents’, his country’s—very seriously.

Bond stands for a long moment in the doorway to Q’s bedroom to let his eyes adjust to the semi-darkness created by thick draperies and London’s morning drizzle. Other than his right foot peaking over the edge of the bed, helping to regulate his temperature, the other man cannot be seen under the fluffy white heap of the duvet.

“Did you bring tea?” comes a sleepy croak from the pile.

“Can’t you smell it?”

“It’s not Earl Grey is it?”

Bond smiles fondly at the mass of fabric and feathers as Q’s toes wiggle in the cool air blowing from a small fan set in the corner of the room. “We both know you don’t actually like Earl Grey, despite what you said the day we met.”

There is a hum of agreement and Q sits up, somewhat ungracefully. His hair is a feral mess and his red Arsenal t-shirt, worn thin and nearly pink, slips to show one pale shoulder. He blinks like an owl. Once, twice. Then puts on his glasses, which do nothing to dispel the strigine imagery in Bond’s mind.

The tea Bond hands Q is the ideal temperature, the mug slightly warmer than its contents. Q wraps both hands around it and takes an appreciative sip.

“I thought we’d decided to meet at Q Branch after you’d completed your AAR.”

Bond gives a little shrug that might look casual to most observers, but makes Q sit up straighter, his gaze sharpening. He’s fully awake now.

“What have you done?” he asks, not for the first—or the last—time. His eyes roam over Bond’s body from his short, wheat-colored hair to his highly polished black shoes. Bond’s midnight blue suit is clean, his subtly patterned tie still in a perfect half-Windsor knot. There is no visible blood and Bond does not seem to be in pain.

Bond sits on the edge of the mattress, waits for Q to put down his tea, and then hands him something weighty wrapped loosely in a white handkerchief. The classic monogram in the corner is JB, no middle initial. “I thought it best to do this here, so I could answer any questions you might have.”

The linen flutters to the floor and Q gasps at the gun in his hands. It is unusually heavy and other than the rubber grip, appears to be solid gold. “This is your Walther,” Q states. It is not a question; he knows every piece of weaponry and tech issued by his department. He leans over and turns on the lamp beside the bed. Bathed now in an incandescent glow, the gun is even more luminous. Q turns to Bond, “Double-oh Seven, you should probably start at the beginning.”

“You’ve heard of King Midas and his Golden Touch?”

“Of course. The Greek myth,” Q says. “You’re really going to tell me that everything you touch turns to gold?” He quirks an incredulous eyebrow and Bond is tempted to distract him with a kiss, but this discussion is the reason for his early morning visit, his low-stress mission in Bruges completed mere hours ago, his after-action report still unfiled.

“Not everything, but some things, and only under specific circumstances.”

With the respect due his own tech, Q gently places the Walther on the bedside table next to his cooling tea and waits for Bond to continue.

Bond explains that he was cursed in his youth with the spontaneous ability to change iron into gold, but only if he has a special attachment to it. “As far as I can tell, the objects must be part of my home.”

Q thinks this must be why Bond has never invited him to his own flat, even though they’ve been together now for nearly six months. “Your flat must be…” He searches for an adequate word. “Splendiferous.”

“Ostentatious,” Bond corrects.

“Cutlery?”

“Gold.”

“Doorknobs?”

“Gold. Also the fireplace poker, the bed frame, the hob. Anything iron or steel. This is why I hadn’t been back to Skyfall in years. Do you have any idea how much of the lodge is wrought iron? The gate, the hinges, the fucking chandeliers. I didn’t want to risk changing it.”

“Well, that finally explains the 24-karat PA,” Q says with a smirk, tilting his head to indicate Bond’s crotch. “I never thought that was really your style.”

Bond smiles for the first time since he handed Q the gun. “You could say it reflects my innate mettle.”

Bond is rewarded with a bright laugh before Q turns thoughtful again. “But surely there is a cure? In the myth, Midas washes away his ability in the river Pactolus.”

“For a computer engineering nerd, you’re surprisingly well versed in Greek mythology, darling.” 

With a flap of his slender hand, Q waves away the observation. “I was required to take Humanities credits at uni. You’ve tried it, I imagine.”

“Humanities?”

Q narrows his eyes. “The river.”

“Of course: the Pactolus, the Thames, the Dnieper, the Nile, the Amazon, the Mississippi. None has broken the curse.

“So I’ve learned to deal with it. I try…” he pauses and Q encourages him with a press of his knee to Bond’s thigh. “I try not to get involved, not to become attached. In the past, when this has happened, when I’ve transformed an object that wasn’t originally mine, I’ve known that I’m too close. Emotionally invested.” 

“So the Walther is, what? Home to you?”

“It’s not the gun, it’s the quartermaster,” Bond says quietly. “I love you.”

“Oh, James.” Q begins to crawl into Bond’s arms, only to anxiously draw away. “I’m not going to turn into gold am I?”

Bond pulls Q away from the vortex of duvet and pillows and settles him on his lap. He wraps his arms around Q’s lean body and rubs his cheek against his hair. In contrast to Bond’s sharp suit, Q is wearing just his t-shirt and pants. “Not unless you’re actually a cyborg.”

“I wish,” he starts, only to be interrupted with a kiss.

Q allows himself to be cuddled and kissed for a minute, but Bond can just feel his genius boyfriend’s highly logical mind spinning. Q pulls away and opens his mouth.

“I can probably anticipate your questions,” Bond interjects before Q can get his first word out. He holds up one hand and starts ticking off points on his fingers. “One, when I was in the navy. Two, Dionysus. Three, yes, gods are real. Four, no, it is _not_ a gift. Five, I need a new gun.” He pauses, hand in the air with all fingers splayed, and frowns. Finally, he sticks one finger up again and says, “And six, someone else better give it to me.”

“Will that work?” Q asks.

“I…think so? If I don’t associate the object with the comfort of home or the person I love, perhaps it won’t transform. I don’t want to be known as the man with the golden gun. That seems a bit campy for my taste. Downright vulgar.”

“As well as impractical! The metal too soft and too heavy.” Q hops off Bond’s lap and begins to pace. Bond enjoys the view of his long, bare legs. “This is the perfect impetus to develop a truly effective entirely carbon-fibre firearm.”

“That’s not necessary, love. It just can’t be steel where my skin might touch it.” Bond may be the one with eyes like ice, but the look Q gives him is positively glacial. “Or R could equip my missions…” Another look; Bond swears the temperature drops five degrees. “Or you could launch into an entirely new R&D phase?”

“Yes, that one! I’ll give it codename AU.”

“Apropos.”

Q lunges for his laptop, intent on getting to work, and Bond snares his wrist. “Not now, quartermaster. Save it for the office.” He reels Q back into his personal space and rests his hands on Q’s hips.

“Is this okay?” he asks with a hint of unease. “I know this complicates an already complicated situation. So, are we okay?”

Q’s smile lights the room. “Oh, yes, James, we’re golden.”


End file.
